A Cat with Nine Lives
by seeing-is-believing
Summary: During the skirmish at Malfoy Manor, Hermione is left behind. The Dark Lord instructs Lucius Malfoy to keep her his prisoner; a role that he wishes he did not have to fulfill, giving that his Death Eater beliefs mean less to him than ever. Can Lucius work with Severus to keep Hermione safe in the midst of danger? Can feelings develop between Mudblood and Pureblood?
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer:_ _All characters belong to JK Rowling._

 _Hello! I used to write on here years ago but gave it up when I got busy with A-levels, then university, basically life got in the way! Now I'm settled in my own flat with a stable job and thought that instead of moping around doing nothing on my days off, I should get back to writing!_

 _I started writing around the time I decided to abandon fanfiction but have decided to come back to it. This story revolves around the idea that Hermione is left behind during the events at Malfoy Manor in Deathly Hallows, and ends up being in the captivity of Lucius Malfoy. That story line has been done many times before, but I hope that my story brings new elements to the plot._ _I have a good idea of where this story is going but I'm also open to plot suggestions so would love to hear your thoughts and ideas in the comments!_

 _This is written from Lucius' POV and his internal monologue might seem a bit OOC to some but I like to think that he comes up with these sassy things in his head but is too much of an aristocrat to ever say them out loud._

 _Thank you, and enjoy._

 _ **A Cat with Nine Lives**_

I am the luckiest man in the world, or more accurately, the luckiest Death Eater in the world. A cat with nine lives, having managed to escape, ah, shall we say _certain death,_ on many occasions. Others have not been gifted with such luck. It would be a lie to say I feel any sort of remorse for them. They knew what came with the title.

Severus, on the other hand, also has nine lives, it seems – or sometimes I'm sure he's got even more. That devious bastard gets away with anything, I swear. He's been the bearer of bad news to the Dark Lord on several occasions, yet I do not recall a time where he has found himself chained up to the wall of his own dungeon.

Unlike Severus, I have lost six of nine lives already. I am now forty-five with three more to go and I do not intend to waste them as dextrously as I may have previously.

I squandered number five of nine when I, unfavourably, was knocked unconscious by a stunning spell during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries and woke up in an unbearably unhygienic cell, surrounded by a number of wands trained upon my person. I suppose I should be thankful that I retained any happy memories, since the Dementors had been replaced with real, living guards by then.

I lost another when I was asked, oh-so benignly, by my Master to give up my wand. He spewed some Hippogriff shite about his and Potter's wand sharing the same cores, subsequently allowing neither to kill the other outright, and so I handed it over with my hands shaking for good measure, and watched as he used it like it was an extension of his own body.

Bastard.

Bloody, fucking, inhuman _bastard_.

My Lord's remorseless decision to take my wand was like losing a part of me. No pun intended.

Severus plays the Dark Lord like a fine tuned instrument. But, of course, we all know where Severus' true allegiance lies. Now there are several reasons why I would love to tell Voldemort that his most loyal follower is no more a Death Eater than a house elf.

The main reason why I have not, however, is that I would rather eat pigeon shit than see the Dark Lord ruling over the Wizarding World.

I suppose you weren't quite expecting that to be my stance on things?

Well, having spent my entire childhood listening to Pureblood drivel and being led to believe that killing Mudbloods and Muggles is as normal as it gets for someone of such a prestigious heritage, it came as quite a surprise to find that, in fact, I hated killing. Killing a person is not all it's cracked up to be, believe me. Voldemort forget to put that in the small print when I signed up to be a Death Eater. Not having this ability disposes of the aptitude to kill ruthlessly and so I live a false life of debauchery and depravity.

Who would think it, eh? Certainly not an eighteen year old Lucius Malfoy, eager to follow his father's footsteps in becoming a Death Eater!

With these thoughts whirring inside me, I find myself staring into vehement flames of the fire, downing a glass of Ogden's Finest and counting down to the possibility of a final battle. With any luck it will happen sooner rather than later.

My hair is a mess; I've God knows how many days' worth of stubble; and I smell like an accident in the boy's Quidditch changing rooms, and yet here I sit, drinking away my own sorrow. My Father would be turning in his grave. Good thing I took down his portrait months ago.

Could I tell you, right now, that I'm proud of my life? Probably not. I regret joining this madman's club and not having the audacity to _at least_ try to think up a plan to leave it.

"Father?" Ah, here's Draco. He seems to be the only thing I've left to be proud of. Unlike those asinine, dunderheaded fools he calls friends (known to most as Crabbe and Goyle), Draco is rather more reluctant to doing the bidding of Voldemort.

That's where my son and I differ. I may not _enjoy_ the work I do, but I do it to _survive_.

I swallow the bitterness of the whisky. "Yes, Draco?"

My son gulps hard and I know it's difficult for him to get the words out. I don't blame him for it. I rarely speak to anyone these days. When one's home is under the scrutiny and control of a Dark Lord, one cannot be sure of who might be listening in on things you don't want others hearing. Silence is safe… sort of.

"There's been a message from a group of Snatchers. Aunt Bellatrix has gone to find them. They said they've captured someone important."

It will not be anyone of use then, merely a waste of our time. And time is something I doubt many of us in this household have left. And let me not forget to mention that the mental capacity of any Snatcher is the size of a Knut. When they capture a person it is not because they think they will undeniably be of use to the Death Eaters, no, this is not how the Snatchers work. Rather, it is because they see their captive as a big sack of galleons.

They'll capture anyone for money. I find it quite sickening.

I trace my eyes around the rim of my crystalline glass, unwilling to let my son see the almost defeat in my eyes that are so like his. "Is my presence absolutely required?" _Because why would I want to go if I'm not really needed?_

"Please, Father."

I cannot ignore the pity in his voice. If this was any other time I would, most certainly, penalise him for it. But as it is, I can't be picky about such.

I pull myself up, feeling the full extent of twenty-seven years of service to the Dark Lord as the ache in my joints and bones seems to have also seeped into my tender muscles. Another drawback of the Death Eater lifestyle. These days I'm not quite as supple as I once was at.

I make my way to my entrance hall in steady pace, avoiding the eyes of the generations of Malfoy relatives who adorn the walls in their portraits. How easy it is for them to get lost in their own painted version of this world, to be able to get lost in conversation with other portraits nearby without having to think about the ins and outs of life. I dare say I almost envy them for it.

Damn my supposed nine lives. Perhaps the sooner they're all up the better?

A door shuts behind me and I realise that Draco is not by my side, in fact he's a few yards behind me, no doubt treading in my exact footsteps, afraid of any booby-traps the Dark Lord may have set. How tragic it is for one to fear death in their own home.

My ears pick up the murmur of voices. It's almost a refreshing change to be able to hear voices other than those I hear daily.

"…found 'em in the woods," someone says, who I presume to be the leader of this particular group of Snatchers. He sniffs the air in a most repugnant manner and continues, "They tried to get away from us. Didn't work though, did it?"

It would seem that he is rather taken with the young girl he has caged in his arms, as he leans his head down to inhale the pale skin of her neck, where her jacket lays slightly open and exposes her flesh. Her face, however, appears to me in the shadow of another Snatcher standing in front, so that I cannot see her fully.

The red head on the left, though, undeniably belongs to the Weasley clan.

Another Snatcher I know to be Fenrir Greyback (of _all_ the possible Snatchers, it has to be this ghastly being) pushes his way through the crowd that seems to have assembled, and dumps what looks to be a swollen sack of flesh onto my floor.

I am presented with a boy, most likely around the same age as Draco, although his fat and puffy face means he could possibly be mistaken for someone far older. A Stinging Jinx. Either that or this boy has a severe allergy to something in the woods. His hands have been crudely tied with a piece of rope and his dark hair sticks to his head with perspiration. Though his hair covers most of his forehead, there's a small patch that isn't and I can see the shiny, swollen outline of a red scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.

 _Fuck._

Harry Potter is in my house. The long awaited and anticipated battle may come sooner than I thought.

 _Fuck._

Harry Potter's end may also come sooner than most anticipated. And that, I'm certain, will consequently also be my own demise.

 _Fuck._

This situation is not entirely preferable.

"Draco, you must look closely!" Bellatrix whispers fervently, guiding Draco closer to the swollen figure on the floor. "Is it him? Is it Harry Potter?"

 _Fuck._ Bellatrix has put two and two together. Being one of Voldemort's highest ranking Death Eaters (and let me say that that is no task for an inane individual, Bellatrix's madness, on the other hand, is an entirely different topic) she was bound to sooner or later.

I concentrate on Draco as he takes in the being before him. I've no doubt he knows it's Potter. Fortunately, he's rather more sensible about it than I imagine any other Death Eater would be.

"I can't be sure," he speaks in an almost gentle tone, and turns away from Potter and to Bellatrix. "His face is too messed up to tell."

"Yes, what exactly did happen to his face?"

I've no doubts Potter has been hit by a Hex of some sort. Of course the Snatcher is none the wiser.

"He came to us like that, something he picked up in the forest I reckon."

A blinding flash of silver enters my peripheral vision, and, angling my head, I see the mighty looking sword sticking out of a bag Greyback is holding.

I may be a Slytherin but I know too well just _what_ sword that is. The sword of Gryffindor is in _my_ house and yet I plan to just stand here and act like I've seen nothing.

Let us hope that Bellatrix does not see it. Currently, that sword is supposed to be residing quietly in her vault, I believe, which leads to the obvious question of how the Golden Trio have managed to come across it?

When my sister-in-law turns around and sees just what is poking out of the werewolf's bag, her eyes go wide for a moment and then I find that everything is happening too quickly; Potter and Weasley are dragged to reside in my dungeons for the time being, while the mystery girl who I was unable to identify earlier on is roughly thrown onto the floor.

But I see her now, oh yes, I see her.

 _Hermione Granger._

Her limbs are spread wide, hands and nails digging anxiously into the floorboards, and I notice how thin and pale they are, childlike in their fragility. Her hair is bedraggled (it surprises me to see it is far worse than before) and her clothes are askew, ripped and stained in places.

"Now," says Bellatrix in that childlike tone of hers that I do so hate, "let's see what this _itty bitty_ Mudblood has to say about this!" She points to sword.

The Mudblood pales. I almost feel sorry for her.

Her first question comes rather calmly, "Where did you get it?"

Hermione Granger looks to be in tears already. "W-we found it."

"Just came across it in the forest, did you?" Bellatrix cackles when the girl does not answer. "I thought as much."

The air is tense but silent.

Then, " _CRUCIO!_ "

And the girl begins to scream – the first of what will be many screams tonight.

I tip the whisky down my throat in hope that drowning my insides with expensive alcohol will drown out the echoes of her screams and Bellatrix's unnecessary shouting.

It works for neither.

"WHERE DID YOU GET THE SWORD FROM, YOU FILTHY MUDBLOOD BITCH? IT IS SUPPOSED TO BE IN MY VAULT AT GRINGOTTS!"

She is on top of the Mudblood now, her tangle of raven black frizz she calls hair falling across the girls face, blocking her face from my view.

"P-please," she pleads, "please, it's a fake. It's not real. We haven't been anywhere near your v-vault. _Honestly!_ "

" _Tell. Me. The. Truth._ "

"I'm – I'm not lying. Please, don't h-hurt me. I'm telling the truth, I s-swear…"

Another scream blasts through my ears.

Then another.

And another.

 _Another_

 _Another_

 _Another._

God, but this is never-ending!

Next to me, Draco has both hands pressed against his own ears, muffling the sound. On the floor, however, Bellatrix has now taken out her prized knife and the Mudblood's sleeve has been pushed up to reveal creamy, unmarred skin.

In what could possibly be a moving moment, although to me it's just something that shouldn't happen, Hermione Granger's tear stained eyes fall upon my own. She hiccups a sob and I can see _into_ her; her pain, anger, hatred, and all other emotions pour into her soft brown eyes for me to look at freely.

My god, she is as pure as they come.

At this moment, the knife is pressed down onto her arm and her eyes go blank for a moment, before a hoarse, jagged scream leaves from that perfectly formed mouth – the worst one yet.

Still hearing her screams, still _feeling_ them travel through my body in waves of something that feels similar to sympathy. Somewhere in the midst of things, Bellatrix screeches at me to call for the Dark Lord.

 _Oh God, do I really have to?_

I pull up my sleeve up to expose my god awful Dark Mark and signal him.

I wait.

Everyone waits for his dreaded arrival.

We wait in silence.

I close my eyes and wait for it to be over; little hazy red flashes beneath my eyelids.

And then I hear the voices of others. I know instantly that the voices I'm hearing belong to Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, and I'm even thankful to hear them.

Now I hear more shouting, no, _screaming_ , and a lot of curses zooming in the air above.

One hits me square in the chest. I fly back into the wall behind me.

Then things turn black.

I'm absolutely, positively, certain that I have died and woken up in Hell. Currently the world is deathly black and I'm finding it impossible to collect my thoughts through the screaming that's echoing in my head.

Lord knows I'm too old to be doing this. I'm a man in his mid-forties; mentally I am sound (something any Death Eater should be proud of after nearly three decades of service), but to say my body can cope with the exertion of being thrown through the air at this age would be a lie. I am tired, physically drained of my youthful zeal and heedlessness.

Or perhaps I shouldn't pride myself in my sanity because I can still hear the screaming. It sounds so inhumane, so animalistic, almost like… a _girl?_ Oh yes, I remember Harry Potter and his cronies being in my house, but they escaped did they not?

Oh Merlin, no…

It appears the Granger girl has managed to get herself captured by the Dark side. And I seem to recall Severus (not to forget Draco on so many occasions) telling me how she was the so-called 'Brightest Witch of her age'.

As she gives another bout of screams I open my eyes and am offered a view of the girl writhing in utmost pain. I take in her condition; one black eye; a bleeding nose and split lip; 'MUDBLOOD' carved into her milky white arm. _Bella, you depraved hag._

Without further examination I am unable to fully discover the full extent of her injuries. I can only hope that they have not been brazen enough to rape the girl. Fortunately her clothing appears to be in order. A slightly positive sign and I can only anticipate that Fenrir Greyback is long gone from my residence.

I have no doubt, however, that Hermione Granger's ordeal has only just started.

My Lord will be none too pleased that Potter escaped. The fact that the Mudblood is in our hands may ebb his immediate fury, but I'm sure he'll find her to be of little use after just a few days, when her mind and body will be broken with the wrath of… well, _wrath_.

I had thought that Voldemort would be utterly manic and wrathful towards me, as it was I who summoned him here in hope that we'd have a freshly captured Harry Potter for him to make valuable use of.

After only two rounds of _Cruciatus,_ (I've had more severe punishments for doing much less beforehand, I can't help but fear what more is to come), he withdraws his wand away from me and begins to smile maliciously.

I don't like that smile. Not one bit.

His eyes take on an even more unhuman appearance than normal.

"Your punishment, Lucius, is to take care of the Mudblood whilst she's in our hands."

I gulp. " _Care_ , my Lord?"

"Yes, Lucius." Those sibilant consonants cut my ears like a knife. "This is your home, is it not? Therefore it is your duty to show the filthy Mudblood your _hospitality_."

Great. Just absolutely _fucking_ great. But surely there must be a catch to this?

"As you wish, my Lord." I answer, unwilling to ask anymore.

And it is with these final words that I walk over to the bloody mess of Hermione Granger, hoist her up enough so that it looks as though I'm dragging her cruelly, and take her away.


	2. Chapter 2

The severity of this situation has not yet hit me. When it does, I'm sure it might feel something akin to the Cruciatus Curse. I have been on the receiving end of that curse more times than I care to remember recently. I'm sure you can begin to imagine how… _displeased_ the Dark Lord was after I was broken out of Azkaban. Oh yes, he was thrilled that I had managed to fuck up retrieving the prophecy so royally. I shall spare you the finer details of how he thanked me for it. Suffice to say, I lost control of conscious thought and feeling to such an extent that I also lost control of my bladder.

Oh, how my friends and colleagues laughed their arses off when the stench of my less- than hydrated urine permeated the dungeon cell in which I was being kept. If you've never done so yourself then you will be unaware of the slow warm burn and subsequent itching that occurs afterwards.

Yes, you did hear me correctly. I, Lucius Malfoy, pissed myself in front of Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

After a couple more days chained up in that dank cell and an apology so forced I might have well kissed Voldemort's arse, I was allowed back into society (so to speak). Of course, by then the Dark Lord had made himself more than at home in my Manor.

I am grateful, however, that my punishment did not extend much beyond pain, hunger, and total and utter humiliation. My family were spared, after all. I'm also grateful for the fact that I was not graced with food, for if I had I would surely have shit myself in front of the Dark Lord also.

That would have been extremely unfortunate.

Anyhow, I digress yet again. The severity of this situation is perhaps not actually akin to the Cruciatus Curse, given that I am unlikely to lose control over my bladder this time round.

The situation is still unfavourable, however.

 _Fuck._

I've locked the girl in an unused bedroom in my own personal quarters. And I've locked myself in my study with half a bottle of whisky. If you were to ask me what number drink I'm currently nursing, I would not be able to tell you.

My God. What have I gotten myself into?

Rather, what has that snake-eyed bastard of a Dark Lord gotten me into? Is it not enough that he has taken over my home and my freedom?

It would seem not, apparently.

He's really going to milk his anger with me for all it's worth.

I feel hot, pure rage burning within me.

God knows I'm too old for this. _For any of this…_

For all I know the Dark Lord is currently planning Hermione Granger's death, and has most likely written my own demise into that scenario. Perhaps it would be better if he just got shot of me? I'm old and tired and wandless. Hardly prime attributes of a Death Eater.

Fortunately this alcohol seems to be making a pretty good job of killing me. If the Dark Lord doesn't kill me then perhaps alcohol poisoning is the way to go. I swallow down another mouthful; it burns my throat and warms my insides like nothing else.

And I simply do not care.

I would actually be content to sit here and drink myself to death right now.

But it appears that is not what I will be doing tonight, as three loud raps on the door force me up onto my feet, and I swing the door to my study open wide open.

Severus Snape strides into the room in a billow of black robes.

I cast a Silencing charm on the room. It is common sense to do so these days.

"Severus," I drawl, ever so slightly drunk, "To what do I owe you this pleasure?"

The mocking charm in my voice goes unnoticed by my old friend, as his dark eyes do not falter and his mouth is set in a permanent thin line. Severus always did approach everything with nothing but seriousness. "The Dark Lord will no doubt have plans for her, Lucius. Likely to be nothing short of the foul, grotesque affairs we've seen happen to her kind before. You understand, don't you?"

"Of course I do!" I snap. I know all too well of the things that could happen to dear Hermione Granger.

He scans the room quickly. "And it seems that you've lost her already."

I scowl. "I have not _lost_ her. I've locked her in one of the spare bedrooms down the hall. She's of no use to me unconscious."

I hear my old friend sigh. "It would be wise to keep a close eye on her. She's a vital part in winning this war, Lucius, more so than you can imagine. I've seen her with Potter and Weasley. Without her they are a couple of dunderheaded fools, not capable of even a fraction of the magic that girl can perform."

"Oh yes, I'm sure she is important, but that seems a little _wasted_ , shall we say, now that she's managed to get herself captured, doesn't it?" My incessant tone sweetly hides the fear of losing this war.

"She is still valuable, even whilst in your keeping."

" _How?_ "

Severus straightens up. "I believe we could use her as a way of communicating with Potter and Weasley."

The man is out of his mind. "Impossible! There is absolutely no bloody way of doing so. The connection is between Potter and the Dark Lord, not Potter and his Mudblood!"

"I'm not speaking of a link between their minds Lucius, but rather, a means of correspondence between them. It might be possible to set up a connection between Miss Granger, and Potter and Weasley. It would be done in utter secrecy, of course." He looks to me darkly. "Can you handle that?"

"Of course I can bloody well handle it!" _Can I though?_ "I just don't see how such an action is possible, with the Dark Lord and our _colleagues_ only a hair's breadth away at nearly all times! And what will happen to her when the Dark Lord decides to do god knows what to her? How am I to stop that from happening!?"

Severus lets me settle, knowing full well he'll set me off in a drunken rage if he pushes me too far. After a few silent minutes, he speaks. "I believe it will be a while before the Dark Lord decides to dispose of her, she is far too valuable for the cause at the moment, especially with Potter and Weasley still out there."

He has a point, I suppose. "What happened to those two anyway?" I finally snap.

Severus runs a pale hand through his dark hair. "Oh, those two idiots somehow managed to get out of here. I believe Bellatrix killed an elf in the process. Your former elf, I believe."

My eyebrows rise in unintentional surprise. "Dobbie?" I suppose I should be raging over the fact that my former elf aided Harry Potter, and not for the first time either, I suspect. Instead, I can't help but feel really, really, really _fucking glad_ that the ugly little bastard helped keep get Potter away from Voldemort's clutches.

Christ knows what mess this world would be in had Harry Potter not escaped when he did...

To the surprise of myself and Severus, I let out a loud burst of hysterical laughter. It's been a long time since I've found anything so funny, and I'm not sure if I'm laughing because of the alcohol or because we were _this_ close to being _utterly fucked._

Severus interrupts my fit of laughing. "You might wish to go easy on the drinking, my friend. You will be a vital part in this."

My laughter dies down instantly. "Me?" I hiss. "How the in Merlin's name is a wandless wizard" – I gesture towards myself – "supposed to help?"

"You have a wand, you fool," he tuts.

"Yes, but it's not the same as the other. It doesn't respond so well."

"Well it is better than nothing, Lucius. And you'd best get used to using it. You'll need it to keep Granger alive. A difficult feat, I grant you, giving that she is here in a place that is currently occupied by the Dark Lord and his followers."

There's a lot balancing on my shoulders right now. I really could do without the added weight of Hermione Granger pulling me down, but desperate times call for desperate measures, I suppose.

"So," I say, "what do you suggest that I do?"

Severus' face lights up into a dark smile. "I'd have thought that you're more than capable of working that one out by yourself." He's silent as he sweeps towards the door in a billow of black robes. I can see why the Dark Lord admires this man so.

When he gets halfway out of the room he turns back to me.

"You must make sure she's kept alive." The tone is callous. "If you mess this up it isn't just her life that comes to an end, it's the entire Wizarding World."

 _Great_. All the pressure in the world is on me.

After Severus departs I see to making myself a bit more presentable.

Why do I care what I look like in front of a Mudblood, you ask?

I do not care, but it's about time I get my shit together and make myself look like something more than a useless alcoholic.

I run a brush through my hair quickly and fix it at the nape of my neck with a black velveteen bow; perform a quick shaving charm to my stubble; and put on a fresh shirt. I could really do with a bath but that will have to wait until later.

I make the quick journey to the bedroom that currently houses Hermione Granger.

Opening the door, I scan the room briefly but there appears to be no trace of her.

 _Severus was right; I've already bloody lost her!_

But then I spy a tangled nest of hair peeking out from under the bed. Did she really think I wouldn't see her with that unruly mane of hers giving her away?

I let out an irritated sigh. "Come out from under the bed, Miss Granger. I'd rather not have to get down on the floor and drag you out." And I really would prefer not to, my body kills from being flung halfway across the room previously, that I'm sure I won't get back up from the floor if I get onto my knees.

Her voice wavers with the remnants of tears. "I-I won't come out!"

Unconsciously, my left eyebrow twitches upwards and my lips form a slight smirk – a Malfoy trademark. "Oh, really?"

"You can't make me!" She lets out a squeak and another sound that's something like a hiccup. It takes me a few moments to realise she is sobbing – if I had known before that she would be this emotionally unstable I would have begged the Dark Lord not to make me look after her. I can't be dealing with a hormonal teenager on top of everything else.

I roll my eyes then arc my head slightly to get a better view without straining my neck too much. "Are you going to be sensible and come out, or do you feel like testing my patience, girl?"

My words hang in the air for a few minutes.

But then eventually two bare feet poke out from beneath the bed, followed by thin, pale legs, a body, and, finally, a head of bushy hair. Her face is a blotchy mass of red; puffy eyes and lips, swollen nose. I can't tell whether it's from her torture beforehand or her pathetic crying, but I would place a bet on the former.

"Hello, Miss Granger." I say darkly.

Her bottom lip quivers. _Ah, so I have not lost my touch then._

Suddenly, however, she lashes out at me and her right hand swipes out, connecting with my left cheek. A sharp 'slap' rings through the entire room.

I take an exasperated step backwards.

Did she just fucking slap me?

The sudden stinging warmth of my cheek is enough to tell otherwise.

 _The Mudblood bitch slapped me! Why, I ought to teach her a lesson on who's in charge here…_

"You little bitch, if you think you're going to get away with that!" I spit out. Unfortunately, it appears I am still so shocked from the fact that I just got slapped by a girl young enough to be my daughter that all that actually comes out of my mouth is a less than impressive, "You little - "

Instead I direct a look of pure unadulterated anger towards her, and step back towards her small form.

And this time it's Hermione Granger who steps, _no_ , jumps backwards.

"I'm sorry, sorry, sorry! I didn't mean to, please don't hurt me, I can't take on more, please, please, please…" A string of pathetic, words leave her mouth and her knees begin to buckle.

Incredibly, I find myself reaching forward and gripping her by her shoulders to prevent her from falling.

What am I _doing?_

The girl shakes in my arms. Tears run into the wounds on her face, snot dribbling onto her upper lip. She is pitiful in this moment, and I know that a quick slap around _her_ face would snap her out of her deplorable crying. Except I can't bring myself to do that. In my head it's because causing her further harm isn't the obvious way to gain her trust, but I'd be lying if I told you that was the only reason I do not wish to cause her further harm.

I take in the sight of the young, bedraggled girl before me. And what a sight for sore eyes she is. There is a red slice down one of her cheeks that still oozes fresh blood. Another cut on her lower lip, giving them a plump appearance. Purplish welts and bruises pepper her arms and collarbone, visible only due to the tear in the neck of her jumper.

Her glassy, chocolatey eyes meet my own and it's then that I remember those eyes silently pleading with me to help her when she was sprawled on my drawing room floor.

 _Those eyes…_

 _They are something else…_

I pull my gaze away from her eyes.

My eyes travel lower, finally reaching her arm.

' _MUDBLOOD'_ in ragged gashes mars the smooth skin of her forearm.

My throat constricts a fraction.

 _Bella, you evil bitch._

No wonder she screamed so…

The girls realises that I am staring at her arm and attempts to bring down her jumper sleeve over the damn thing. Except that only causes more pain to shoot through her so she abandons her attempt to shield it from me.

She is very much ashamed of it, I can tell that much.

I feel a lump form in my throat.

 _Good God, am I starting to feel sorry for her?_

Certainly not.

The girl continues in her hysterics once more and now I find my voice rising, "For goodness sake, I am not going to hurt you!" I can't help but shake her for good measure.

I did not mean to raise my voice quite that loudly but it seems to have done the trick because she's silent now. Stiff in my arms, she raises her eyes to my face.

I finally let go of her, aware that I was holding onto her for longer than I originally intended to, and gesture to a couple of chairs over by the fire. She takes the cue and goes and sits down in one. I take the other and pull it up closer to her. Not too close, but enough to intimidate her, for sure.

With a wave of my hand I have conjured the bottle of whisky I'd previously been drinking – to drown my sorrows – and two glasses.

One for myself and one for Hermione Granger. Even the notion of pouring a drink for her is crazy enough, let alone the fact that she and I will be getting to know one another quite well over the next few… days, weeks? I'm not quite sure.

I fill her glass to the half mark and hand it to her, a little forcefully, and I fill my own to the brim before taking a large gulp.

A trickle of amber escapes my mouth and I swipe at it with my tongue.

The girl is staring firmly into her lap, and I knew before even giving her the drink that she wouldn't have any of it.

"It's considered impolite not to imbibe when it's been so kindly offered to you…" I drawl.

She takes a look at the glass before downing it in its entirety, grimacing at the taste. I must say, I'm actually rather impressed.

"I suppose we can cut out the introductions," I begin, "you know I, and I know you, so to speak."

Except in her eyes I am a cold, evil, ruthless, murderer, the Devil-reincarnated, Death Eater, blood supremacist, etcetera, etcetera… That wouldn't be a wrong description, but neither is it the truth of who I am. "Think what you want about me but I do not wish to submit you to endless pain and torture whilst you are here."

"Why should I believe you?"

I lean forward and refill her glass. "Do you think I'd be sharing my finest Firewhisky with you if I intended to torture you?" I scoff. "You'd vomit it straight back up the moment I utter even the beginning of a curse. It would be a complete waste of a fine drink!"

Hermione Granger actually smiles at me. A short-lived smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"Jokes aside, if I had wanted to hurt you I would have laid more than a finger on you whilst you were indisposed as you were in my drawing room earlier. Given that I didn't so much as look at you for longer than a few seconds, it is safe for you to assume that I will not harm you. I mean it, _I will not_."

She swallows hard as she considers my point. I see her relax. Only a fraction, mind you.

It's a start, however.

I change the tone of the conversation; "Now, there are a few things we must discuss. Firstly, there is the matter of your survival. You do want to survive this, I presume?"

I sense a sudden waver of panic come over her, and then she nods her head vigorously.

"Yes, I thought as much." And I take another sip of my drink. "To survive you do exactly what I say."

"That's it?" she asks.

"It is as simple as that."

She looks to fire; the watery tracks of tears reflect the roaring flames, and illuminate the bruising that is beginning to blossom beneath her cheeks. But then suddenly her eyes are back on me, wide and frightened.

"I-I don't believe you."

"Believe what you will, Miss Granger, but I know you have more intelligence in you than that. After all, it was your sharp mind that came up with the idea of using a Stinging jinx against your friend to conceal his identity. A shame it didn't quite work…" I drawl. "But then again, I suppose it did work in a way. Harry Potter is still on the run. But here _you_ are."

It appears I have hit a nerve with her.

Good.

I continue, "Anyhow, I should also like to strike a deal with you, Miss Granger."

I can see her muddy brown eyes taking in my form; she is rather animal like in her observation of me, up and down her eyes travel on my person. She's like an anxious doe, testing whether or not to step forward into my outstretched hands and take the offering.

"What kind of deal?"

"Like I said before, it is very simple. No magic involved. Just your word and my word."

Her eyes flash; the black of her pupils swell briefly and engulf the chocolate brown. "What makes you think I should take your word for it?" she hisses. "What makes you suddenly trustworthy enough that I should confide in you? If you haven't remembered, _Mr_ _Malfoy_ , you are a Death Eater, and Death Eaters do not make deals with their prisoners!"

I can see I'm going to have a difficult time in making her see that I am not the man she thinks I am. Then again, I suppose I knew she wouldn't be too easy to handle. Damn Gryffindor's and their infuriating courage. "Well, well, you've certainly come out of your shell quickly. But a minute ago you were snivelling in my arms like a frightened little girl."

I've made her angry now. Well I suppose that's better than the emotional wreck she was before. I breathe long and hard through my nose. "I had hoped you would be rather more pliant than this, Miss Granger."

"Don't call me that!"

"Would you prefer 'Mudblood'?"

"No, I just – I don't want you to call me anything, I don't want anything to do with you! If you're going to kill me then just get on with it and cut the niceties!"

Why does everyone always assume the worst of me?

"I have no intentions of disposing of you," I spit the words out rather forcefully, "Didn't you hear me before? I want to increase your chances of survival, not diminish them!"

"Why?" she spits. "Why would you help me? You hate me and everything I stand for!"

"Given current circumstances, my old habits _have_ died hard."

"What does that mean?"

"I am not the same man you last saw in the Department of Mysteries."

"You're saying that you've changed?"

"Perhaps I am saying just that."

The Granger girl laughs, a little drunkenly sounding, but considering she's only had one shot of whisky, I can't really put it down to that.

"If there is one thing your son has taught me throughout our years at Hogwarts, it's that Malfoy's can't be trusted."

"What you presume to know about my family is only the tip of the iceberg, _Miss Granger_."

She sits up higher in her chair. "I know that you all hate people like me. _Especially_ me."

"I do not hate you, Miss Granger. At least not right at this moment."

That seems to provoke quite a reaction from her and she is baffled enough to finally take another sip of the whisky. Raising her eyes from the glass, she is surprised to see that I am watching her intently.

"However," I start, "let us not confuse not hating you for liking you. We're not yet at that stage, Miss Granger."

"Of course," she says factually; seriously. "I wouldn't want to actually think you were capable of such a feeling."

I surprise myself by actually smiling at her answer. Not my customary smirk, but a genuine smile.

She seems to relax further now, going so far as to take another sip of her drink.

"I wouldn't want you to think that either. How about we settle on just tolerating one another for the time being?" I say.

"I suppose I can agree to that."

"Good."

"So what exactly is it that you want me to agree to?"

"Your life and dignity in exchange for my own. Quid pro quo. I help you get through this ordeal with your mind, body and soul intact. All I ask is that when this sorry war is over, assuming your side is victorious, you see to it that my family and I are not dragged down."

"I-I I don't understand… you want You-Know-Who to win, don't you?"

"Let's just say, I am not exactly in the Dark Lord's favour right now. Suffice to say I am not in favour of him either."

She ponders over my request, no doubt wondering what my ulterior motive is. I can honestly say that I don't have one.

Miss Granger opens her mouth to speak again, "Have you considered what will happen to our 'deal' if _your_ side is victorious."

 _No, truth be told, I have not. Because that is not a world I even want to consider living in._ But instead of muttering my thoughts I simply smirk and state, "You would doubt that your own side would not win this war?"

"I know that if they don't my life will be over in an instant." Her eyes go glassy at the thought. Again, I almost feel sorry for her.

I cast a serious expression over my face, "We shall see." And with that I drain my glass.

I'll leave her to ponder further for now.

I stand up and begin to walk out of the room.

"There is a bathroom just through that door, Miss Granger." I point in the direction of the en-suite. "Fresh clothes are in the drawers, and supper will be provided by the house elves later this evening. Goodbye for now."

And with that, I retreat from the room, leaving a dismayed Hermione Granger to her own devices.


	3. Chapter 3

The next evening I find myself in my study once again, (after a much needed and deserved bath, of course); glass of whisky in one hand, my replacement wand in the other.

I remember my first sip of Firewhisky at the age of eleven. At that age, a mere whelp of a boy, the ingenuity of alcohol eluded me to such an extent that I could not fathom for the life of me why my father retired to his study each evening to give himself to this drink. So, at the naive age of eleven, I snuck into his study one dreary afternoon, set on tasting that golden libation. One drop reached my tongue before an unseen hand from behind snatched the bottle away from my innocent lips.

Of course, my father has been entirely aware that I had entered his study. The severity of his punishment ensued that I did not so much as even look at a bottle of Firewhisky until shortly after he died.

These days I am unashamed of how I lose myself in the amber depth of my favourite drink on an almost daily basis. It often helps me to think more clearly (after the first couple of glasses of course, much more than that and I am entirely unable to think at all…). Despite this, I am currently on my third glass and none the wiser in coming up with any reasonable strategy to help Hermione Granger.

The alcohol hasn't yet drowned out Severus' words that are on repeat in my head like a damn cockatiel; _"You'll need to keep Granger alive. A difficult feat, I grant you, giving that she is here in a place that is currently occupied by the Dark Lord and his followers."_

 _A difficult to feat?_ More like damn near impossible!

The first thing is to keep her away from prying eyes, which I have already fulfilled by locking her up in a disused bedroom in my quarters. Thankfully, only those of Malfoy blood may come freely into my quarters, and, of course, those I choose to invite. And I certainly don't plan on inviting any of my colleague's to access my personal belongings any time soon. Not that Miss Granger is my belonging.

 _Or is she now?_

How can I stop others from hurting her if that is what the Dark Lord orders them – _or me_ – to do? I cannot.

The inevitable is really out of my control. Eventually she will be of no more use to us…

There is a horrible gnawing in my gut at the thought of that.

My God, is that… _pity_ I feel?

I cannot be pitying a Mudblood, surely? Not just any Mudblood either, but the one who bested Draco at everything during their time at Hogwarts. All that Draco has told me about Miss Granger over the years is absolutely meaningless to me now.

Not now that I've seen such pure innocence and vulnerability in those eyes of hers…

He never mentioned her eyes before.

The image of her sprawled across the floor, pleading into my soul with those dark brown orbs of hers… I would be lying if I said that they haven't affected me. And I would be lying to you further if I told you that I hadn't thought about her whilst I was taking my bath this evening.

It came as a surprise to myself, as well. Quite naturally one was imaging the touch of a woman, a woman who started as a generic figure of my imagination and before the tub was even half way full this generic woman had amalgamated into a young woman with a head of bushy hair and chocolate brown eyes. I confess I was lost in my reverie for a good while before it came crashing to an unsatisfactory end after realising that Hermione Granger had popped into my subconscious.

I'm sure you can imagine my surprise, for I leapt straight out of the bath and doused myself in a cold shower to, ah, shall we say, _cool me off_.

A prisoner is not worth thinking about at all, let alone in that… _unsavoury_ manner.

Hermione Granger, _my_ prisoner.

Prisoner? I half grimace and half laugh at the expression. In normal circumstances (well, perhaps, un-normal circumstances) to have a prisoner locked up in a bedroom would put you on par with a ruthless madman. In my case, I feel like my position is rather less than that.

I have not been to see her since last night. _Except in my mind…_

I wonder what she's doing at this very moment?

She's most likely still blubbering away.

Should I go and check upon her? Make sure that she's still breathing? Would she consider trying to end her own life in order to escape from here? Desperate times do call for desperate measures, I suppose. And who knows how desperate Hermione Granger is at this moment?

I doubt it though. Somehow, I think she's far to Gryffindor to try such a thing.

Did I remember to feed her this morning? Ah, yes, I ordered the house elves to provide her with three meals a day. It's preposterous that she should get more to eat than even I've had today. But I suppose I can't blame the fact that I choose to substitute food for alcohol on poor Miss Granger.

My thoughts of the Granger girl are interrupted by a whoosh and a roar of green flames at the fire place. I lazily turn my head in the direction and see Severus step into the room.

Like before, I cast a silencing charm on the room.

"I have news." _Nice to see you too, dear friend._ "The Order informs me that Potter and Weasley went to Ronald's brother and sister-in-law's house on the outskirts of Tinworth after escaping from here yesterday. They report that they are both lacking the will to continue their mission to defeat the Dark Lord now that their friend has been captured..."

"Of course they have…" I say sarcastically.

"For all they know she is dead, Lucius. I believe if we can get a message to them from Miss Granger that tells them that she is safe, it may just provide them with enough encouragement to continue. If they don't get off their arses soon they are about as much use to us in winning this war as a chocolate teapot."

Pathetic they are. They lose the strongest link in their chain and the entire thing breaks. How the future of the Wizarding World is pinned on those two idiots is beyond me?

I sigh. "That's all very well, Severus, but will they not automatically assume that we Death Eaters have forced her hand to write such a letter?"

Severus's lips are a thin line of pure concentration. He steps forward and takes a seat in the chair opposite my own. "Naturally I've considered how receiving a letter from their dear friend in the midst of their enemy may appear to those two dunderheads." Severus can always be relied upon to thoroughly consider all options. I'm sure that must be why the Dark Lord values his input so greatly. "That said, I believe the best way to make sure they are convinced she is actually safe is to accompany it with a recent memory."

I nod my head in agreement. "Very well, Severus."

At that Severus takes a seat in one of my finest Dragon Leather chesterfield armchairs, summoning himself a glass of my whisky. "You look exhausted, my friend," he comments with a smirk.

"This business with Granger will probably finish me off, you do understand." I drawl sarcastically and Severus smirks again.

"Her _and_ the drinking. How is the girl, anyway?"

"Thrilled about being here, of course! I have completely downplayed to her just how much danger she is in. I told her I will protect her and asked for her trust, but I know damn well that I can't truly protect her."

My words hang in the air between us and neither of us speaks for a good few minutes before I pipe up again. "The thing you have not considered, Severus, is that our Lord has a special connection with Potter. Will he not utilise that to get through to Potter and try and lure Potter and Weasley to come and capture her?"

The fire cracks in the silence that follows my question.

I can practically see the cogs turning inside Severus's head. "I'd say that's more than a reasonable possibility, but I know that the Order would never let Potter or Weasley put themselves in the hands of the Dark Lord so easily, not after how close they came to just that only yesterday."

"When have they _ever_ done what they are told, though?"

Severus lets out a short laugh. "Yes, that's true. Perhaps he will spare her to an extent if I convince him that Potter and Weasley most definitely won't be coming to save her."

I consider this. "I suppose it is worth a try."

"Speaking of such things, have you thought about what you're going to do with Miss Granger?"

"I've thought of nothing else," I mutter. Well, that's not entirely true, but I can hardly admit to him that I thought about her whilst in the bath earlier, can I? Instead I say, "I am still no closer to coming up with any solid idea. Not unless I take her away from the Manor altogether, which will surely raise more questions than it answers." Oh yes, that would very much be a case of 'out of the frying pan and into the fire'.

Severus's eyes open wide suddenly and he sits forward in his chair. "You might have something there, Lucius."

"Excuse me?"

"Taking her away from here is exactly what you must do."

"You are not serious?" I say, incredulously.

"I am. Keeping her here will eventually jeopardise her safety."

Of course he's right. He's always bloody right. "Exactly _how_ are we supposed to explain that to the Dark Lord?"

He ponders for a moment. "Perhaps I could fabricate a story that Order is currently planning a rescue mission? Potter and Weasley have obviously told them of their friend's whereabouts." Severus balances his wand between his thumb and forefinger, concentrating hard. "If they come he risks losing his most important prisoner."

"But it won't be Potter and Weasley coming to save her, though?"

"No, we will need to assure him of that. We'll convince him that the best way to get to Potter is to do nothing to Granger. Just keep her locked up somewhere where no one on the other side will be able to find her will be enough to ground Potter and Weasley. I will notify the Dark Lord on the morrow that we wish to meet with him. Do you think you will be up to that, my friend?"

"Of course," I reply. But the fact of the matter is that I cannot think of anything worse. Voldemort has always repulsed me, to say the least. When my father first introduced me to him (I believe I was fifteen at the time) I came extremely close to passing out when he removed his hood and revealed his face to me. My father was forced to explain that my reaction was due to the fact that my mother's death, mere months before, had marred my psyche somewhat and weakened my disposition. But how could a teenage boy not be terrified by his snake-like slits for eyes, skin so pale and fragile that the veins beneath were visible and you could see them pulse with each heartbeat, and the faint smell of decay that wafted into the air as he removed his outer robe.

But to put my entire revulsion of Voldemort down to his physical appearance wouldn't be giving you the full picture. His ideals are no less savoury. He once told me of what he would allow to happen to the all the Muggles when he _rules the world_ , so to speak. So awful and grotesque was this particular objective that I had to excuse myself from the dinner table in order to vomit up my beef wellington and red wine in the nearest restroom.

 _That_ was certainly not what I signed up for.

Severus turns away from me, taking careful strides back towards the Floo. Taking a handful of Floo powder, he turns to me again. "There is one thing you haven't considered, Lucius."

"What's that?"

"Can you protect the girl from yourself?"

With those words he throws the powder into the Floo and vanishes into the bright green flames.

As the flames die down, I realise that my heart is beating harder than it was before.

 _Protect her from myself?_

What the _hell_ does he mean by that?

Miss Granger's appearance is drastically different from when I left her last night. She appears to have bathed and washed her hair, for although her locks remain curly, they are in better form than the bird's nest I remember from yesterday.

The gashes on her face have healed almost completely; fine pinkish lines in their place. Ah yes, I left her a pot of healing balm also. Thank goodness. She is much less a sight for sore eyes now.

Although the balm has worked wonders to conceal the cuts and bruises of her face, it appears that it did not work so well on Bellatrix's handiwork on Miss Granger's forearm. Now that I think about it, I do seem to recall Bellatrix wittering on about placing a curse upon that knife.

 _Oh Bella, cursing your knife so that the wounds it leaves behind do not heal with magic… You are a nastier piece of work than I recall._

Miss Granger has likely worked that one out for herself already as she has carefully wrapped a piece of bedsheet around her arm as a makeshift bandage. My eyebrows rise slightly; I am impressed by her resourcefulness.

She's not wearing those filthy, Muggle clothes any longer. She now prances around in what is essentially an oversized pillow case. It's not quite the attire of a house elf but it's not far from it. It is a simple white dress – gown, if you prefer – with no shape or style. It is completely unbecoming on her and I must stifle a laugh. She looks rather comical. It's modest, virginal almost.

Well, not quite virginal, because the neckline is… shall we say, _plunging_. If she leans forward an inch or two too far, I can almost see the swell of her breasts.

It is not what I intended but alas, my manly instincts get the better of me and my greedy eyes soak up the sight for a moment or two before I realise exactly what I am doing. I can't help but wonder if this is what my mind would have concocted during my bath, had I allowed myself to continue to relish in that fantasy?

 _Well, well, well, Hermione Granger, this is rather unexpected…_

"Mr Malfoy?" Her timid voice snaps me out of my somewhat sensuous thoughts, she tugs upwards on the neckline and there's a pretty pink blush on her cheeks that wasn't there a moment ago. It would appear that I have been caught red handed.

And I do not care one bit.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" I can't help the smirk that goes alongside my words.

"I have been thinking about somethings after you came yesterday…" she begins, a little cautiously, given that I was just staring at her barely concealed breasts. "You said that I have to cooperate with you if I want to stay alive, but there are some things I need _you_ to cooperate with as well. Firstly, if I am to remain here as your prisoner, I would prefer not to sit here uselessly all day. I would very much like to have some books to read. I don't care which ones, just anything or I'm afraid I'll find myself going stir crazy."

"I'm sure that can be arranged." I reply.

"Thank you." The girl looks uneasy as she goes on. "I need to know something else. Yesterday you told me that you wouldn't hurt me, that you will help me. I need to know that this isn't just some trick."

"We are going to be spending much time together from now on, Miss Granger. If you are unable to take my word for it now then I only hope that my actions speak louder than words."

I let her think on this for a moment. She drops her eyes to the floor but her brows remain creased, as though she is considering every possible meaning of my words. I suppose it is logical for Hermione Granger to not believe a word that comes out of my mouth. Our past encounters haven't exactly been… amenable.

"The thing I am struggling to believe, Mr Malfoy," she says, "Is that can a man who has given up on is values really be trusted?"

What?

Given up on my values?

How dare she even go there?

 _The little bitch._

I am not quite adult enough at this moment to conceal my rage at that comment. In a second I push her against the wall, bringing my face close to hers. So close that I can feel her warm breath across my cheeks.

"Oh, I wouldn't quite say that I've given up on _all_ of my values…" I drawl in the most murderous manner I can muster. She has all but stopped breathing; her eyes are wide with fear.

Those eyes again, _those damn eyes._

I can feel her small body pressed against my own. I'm not sure why but I push my body further into her, letting her feel me fully against her.

She's shaking now, and her eyes prickle with unshed tears. Does she think me capable of raping her? I am very much against such a deplorable act, but the threat of it is one that I was always found worked greatly in my favour.

I glare down at her with a hatred I almost forgot I was capable of. "You would do well not to try my patience, Miss Granger. I may detest killing, but I am not above teaching you a lesson in where you stand against me. Do not ever speak to me like that again. Do you understand?"

She nods.

I let go of her.

She stumbles, wipes her eyes quickly; a little fire sparks in those muddy eyes. I confess I am surprised she's not erupted into a fit of tears. Instead she squares her shoulders and looks at me with a braveness I've not seen in a Mudblood before. Dare I say she almost looks strong? But I'm sure it's only her Gryffindor front making her appear stronger and braver than she actually is.

It's almost as though she's waiting for an apology from me.

I step back into the room, distancing myself from the young girl in the oversized dress.

"Now, Miss Granger. There is something that I need you to do for me."

I clutch the girl's handwritten message in my hand. It proved somewhat difficult to get her to write it after our… _altercation_ beforehand. In the end, however, she gave up the pretence that she actually had a choice in the matter and wrote it.

I catch a glimpse of her neat script; _Dear Harry and Ron,_ it reads. _I am sorry from the bottom of my heart…_ Blah, blah…

Ugh, how utterly pathetic and endearing her words are! I fold the parchment in half and seal it in the envelope with the vial of a memory that shows them she's quite safe. Not her most recent memory that involves me pushing her to the wall and threatening her, of course. No, I think we'll keep that between us for now.

Malfoy's have, despite our superior upbringing, always had severe tempers. I saw it in my father, I see it in Draco. And, of course, I have it in me. Whilst I have prided myself on controlling it more efficiently than my father, of course, there are times when it still creeps up on me unaware. You don't have to look past my, ahem… _altercation_ with Arthur Weasley in _Flourish and Blotts_ to realise that it doesn't take much to bring out the worst in me.

Recently though, I've found it has lessened somewhat. I can't decide whether or not this is because of my time in Azkaban or that I am much less willing to draw attention to myself at this point. Most would say I am cowardly in manner at this point, and to be honest, I would agree with them. What's the point in acting superior these days when, quite frankly, I have been shat upon by the Death Eater cause I once idealised.

Miss Granger, however, is another matter entirely. She, with her Gryffindorish attitude, lack of respect, and knowledge that she has no right to know, bought out the very worst in me this evening. I have not been enraged like that for a good while. Did I overreact? Indeed. I'm not sure I quite meant to take it out on her in the way I did. I was unprepared though. Unprepared for the feelings she evoked in me when she accused me of cowardice.

 _Oh, bollocks._ I've really fucked up on any pretence of being a 'changed man' that she may have started to believe.

Do I really care what she thinks of me though? I'd given up caring about what my Master or colleagues think of me a long time ago. Well, one is hardly looked at in great expectations after pissing oneself in front of them.

I select my most efficient owl, Horace, to ensure this letter arrives safely in the hands of Potter and Weasley. He takes the letter I offer to him in his beak and takes off, disappearing from view into the dead darkness of the night.

She is so far beneath me that I shouldn't even have given a single damn what she said! It should have gone in one ear and out the other. Instead I pushed her against the wall and threatened her with… I don't even know what.

" _We are going to be spending much time together from now on, Miss Granger. If you are unable to take my word for it now then I only hope that my actions speak louder than words."_

That's what I told her only seconds before I had her against the wall. Bloody hell, I am a walking, talking hypocrite!

I return to my bedroom, remove my outer clothes and collapse on the bed, half out of exhaustion, and half out of regret. Sleep will come torturously slow tonight.


End file.
